A Long Day's Journey
by Evvy
Summary: A beginning of a long day. Futurefic. Slash.


**Title:** A Long Day's Journey  
**Author:** Ev vy  
**Rating:** PG  
**Pairings:** Jack/Daniel  
**Season/Episode:** Futurefic  
**Spoilers: **none  
**Warnings:** none  
**Summary:** Just a day in Jack and Daniel's life  
**Notes:** Mayny thanks to Kres and the Beta for their help.

**A Long Day's Journey**

Daniel wakes up and it's still dark. He hasn't needed much sleep in quite a while. To his friends he says that it must be payback for all the morning sleep-ins. Or jokes that it's ironic that, when he no longer needs a twenty-four-hour-long workday, he has more time than he ever imagined possible.

He sits on the bed and leans to find his slippers. Half-way down he realizes that it was a bad idea. He straightens, choking down a moan of pain. He stills, but Jack's breathing doesn't change rhythm. It has taken Daniel a while to get used to its quicker pace and shallowness.

Slowly, he gets up and feels for the slippers with his feet. His feet are perpetually cold, so Jack ordered a pair of thick fluffy monkey slippers for Daniel's last birthday. Though considerably resistant to modern technology, Jack had taken the joys of voice command in his stride. Jack's hands remind Daniel of gnarled oak-tree roots he saw once in Minnesota.

They bought a new house a few years ago. Sam helped to design it. No stairs, no thresholds. Wide doorways, lots of floor space, a drive right to the front door. And so many modern conveniences that Jack initially refused to move there, claiming, for crying out loud, he still could function without them. It took Daniel a month to learn how to operate everything, while Jack operated nothing. In the end, Daniel concluded that it was worth it, but he was chagrined that it had been such a tedious process. For the first time in his life he hadn't enjoyed learning.

The journey to the kitchen takes him a while, and he often complains that it was a bad idea to place the bedroom on the other side of the house from the kitchen. He longs for a cup of hot black coffee, but their doctor said he'd put Daniel on laxatives if he didn't stop drinking it. So he sighs and settles for a mug of decaffeinated liquid that shares its name with coffee and has improved over the years, but his taste buds can never be fooled.

He pours a glass of water and reaches for the locker with his and Jack's medicines. Sitting, he wonders whether to break the habit and refill the empty niches a day earlier than usual. He had the container specially made. It has two drawers, one for him and one for Jack. Each drawer is divided into seven compartments, one for each day of the week. And each compartment is divided into three, for mornings, afternoons and evenings. He used to think it was a nifty idea, but now he loathes the creature of habit he's become.

The pills are small, but he can barely swallow them. He grabs a banana from a platter to help the pills to go down. He then relishes his mug of decaf and longs for the piss that was served in the canteen.

There's still time until Jack wakes up. Jack needs the sleeping pills as a nightly refuge from the pain of his bones and joints. He refuses to take enough painkillers to ease Daniel's concern. He'd vehemently vetoed the idea of using Goa'uld technology to alleviate his condition. So had Daniel.

The bathroom is huge and the tub is below the floor level. Daniel fills it with hot water and uses a special platform to lower himself into the tub. Sam made it, joking that it should be naquada-powered, just in case they needed a bath and there was a blackout. He thinks of Sam often. There are many things in their house that remind him of Sam. But he never mentions it to Jack, and Jack never says anything to him, although Daniel is pretty sure that, at times, they remember exactly the same thing about her.

He leans back and closes his eyes. The short nap that catches him unawares is broken by the soft swoosh of Jack's wheelchair. He turns his head and Jack's watching him. He resists the urge to cover as much of his body as possible. He doesn't want Jack to see him old and saggy and wrinkled, but it wouldn't be fair on Jack. Jack whose body Daniel touches on regular basis while helping him to wash, to piss. Jack had declared catheters an invention of mad scientists and had insisted - shouted - that while anything could go out through his cock, nothing would ever go in.

"I'd join you, but that contraption is still under your butt."

"You're just looking for an excuse not to share a bath with me" Daniel jokes, but it doesn't escape Jack's honed observational skills that it's something Daniel fears and has feared for a while.

"Daniel..." Jack's tone of voice reassures him that it isn't so. That he wants it, but won't admit that he can't.

"Jack"

"Daniel" Jack says pointedly, refusing to enter into that argument again. He just looks at Daniel, and Daniel again notices that Jack's eyes aren't brown any longer.

It's often easier not to think that the epithet "middle-aged" has been deleted from their personal profiles.

But the expression in Jack's eyes is always the same when Jack looks at Daniel. And he feels ashamed of himself. Ashamed of his insecurity, of his lack of faith in Jack. It's Jack who should be insecure. So dependent on Daniel, something that Jack still doesn't cope with well, but Jack believes that Daniel isn't with him from some ill-begotten sense of duty. Jack believes that Daniel wants to take care of him.

And he has to close his eyes to prevent the tears from falling. "Jack..."

"I know, Daniel. I know. And you know too."

Daniel hears the wheelchair drive away and he knows he should get out of the bath and resume their daily routine, but he allows himself a few minutes more of comfort knowing that Jack will never begrudge him that.

It's a slow beginning of another slow day.


End file.
